


Comfort Food

by romanticalgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: Steve grieves
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	Comfort Food

**Author's Note:**

> This story is endgame compliant if Steve came back on time.

***

Bucky stops in the kitchen doorway and raises an eyebrow. "Do I dare ask what you're doing?"

"You could." Steve looks over his shoulder and glares at him. "Or you could not be an asshole."

"Oh. That doesn't sound likely at all." He walks into the kitchen and looks around, stopping when he gets to the sink full of dishes, to the counter next to it where there's a pan that's still smoking. "Please stop."

"Please go away." Steve has turned back to the stove and is frowning down at the recipe book.

"I've had your six for ninety percent of the time you've been alive and unfrozen. I'm not backing out now."

"I'm cooking, not going into battle."

"I hate to tell you this, but I think they're the same thing when it comes to you."

"I don't need you to be Gordon Ramsey. Go away. Go back out with Sam or something."

"Sam says, and I quote, 'I'm sick of your damn face, Barnes. Go bother Steve. He actually likes you'."

"Since when do you listen to Sam?"

"He occasionally has a good idea."

"Fine. Go read a book or something."

"Steve."

"Damn it, Bucky, just…" He grabs the counter tight enough that his knuckles go white, his shoulders tensed tight enough that his muscles look like boulders. 

"Okay. Okay." Bucky holds his hands up in surrender. "Just don't set the kitchen on fire." He walks out into the living room and grabs his tablet then walks back into the kitchen and settles at the table on the opposite side of the island from Steve.

Steve's still standing there, shoulders tight, though he's let go of the counter. After a moment he straightens and goes back to whatever is on the stove. Bucky stays quiet, but he knows Steve knows he's there.

It's silent for a long time except for the sounds of pots and pans and spoons, and Bucky's metal fingers tapping on the table now and then. The quiet is shattered like glass by a shouted curse, and the sound of a pot flying across the room and embedding in the wall.

Steve stalks out of the room and, a few moments later, Bucky hears the front door slam. He gets up and pulls the pot out of the wall and walks back to the stove, carefully avoiding whatever it is that was in the pot and is now, instead, all over the floor.

He sets the pan on the counter and closes the now-ruined recipe book, wincing when he reads the title.

_Cooking for Dummies_

**

He's already in bed when he hears Steve come back late that night. From the unsteadiness of his steps, it's clear he'd gotten hold of some of Thor's Asgardian mead. Bucky gets up and walks into the living room where Steve is sprawled on the sofa. Bucky can smell the booze from across the room, and it's even stronger when he sits in the chair angled toward the couch.

"Please tell me you didn't ride the bike like this."

"Didn't." Steve's words are slurred. Bucky hadn't thought so. Steve may not give a fuck about his own life, but he does about other people's.

"You want to tell me what's going on?"

"You saw." Steve shrugs and straightens up. 

"Yeah. Not sure really what I saw. Or why."

Steve yawns. "Going to bed."

The effects of the booze are already wearing off, which means he couldn't have had too much to drink. His voice is close to normal, and he's steady when he walks.

"You know, whatever it is, you can talk to me about it."

"Nothing to talk about. Night, Buck."

**

When Bucky comes back from his and Sam's next mission, Steve's asleep. Bucky's surprised, because usually, if he's not still awake when it happens, the sound of the door usually wakes him. Shutting Steve's door, he goes into his own room and changes into a pair of sweats and a worn T-shirt. 

He goes into the kitchen and pulls out the makings for a grilled cheese sandwich, assembling it then opening the cupboard to pull out the griddle. It's gone, and in its place is a new sandwich maker and a new set of pans. There's no other sign of a cooking disaster, but he doesn't really need one. He sighs and pulls out the sandwich maker, plugs it in, and waits for it to warm up.

**

Bucky doesn't say anything in the morning when he gets out the pan for scrambled eggs. Steve doesn't say anything, just puts his cereal bowl in the sink before heading out for his morning run. 

Bucky drinks his two cups of coffee while the eggs warm to room temperature then he scrambles a dozen of them and makes some toast, setting them on the table just as Steve comes in.

"It's ready. No time for a shower first."

Steve peeks his head in and gives Bucky a tight smile. "Not really hungry right now."

"What?" Bucky's not sure what it is - Steve's unwillingness to talk or his tone - that makes him snap, but he does. "What? You can't make it yourself so you're not going to eat it? Just going to waste more food? Sit your ass down and eat your damn eggs."

Steve's jaw tightens, and Bucky glares at him. He knows he should feel bad for the cheap wasteful dig, but instead he refuses to look away as he slops a spoonful of eggs onto Steve's plate.

"Don't think I won't forcefeed you, you fucking stubborn ox."

Steve keeps glaring, even as he pulls the chair back, scraping it against the floor. He sits down aggressively, which Bucky hadn't known was possible. Steve stabs his fork into the eggs hard enough that they're probably now seasoned with dusty ceramic from the plate.

"Fucking martyr."

"What?"

"Don't pretend you didn't hear me. Now. Just tell me what the fuck is going on."

"Nothing."

"So why do we have a brand new set of pans?"

"The other ones were old."

"Six months old."

"Fine. I destroyed them, okay? That what you want to hear? I fucking ruined them, so I tossed them out and bought a new set."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"It doesn't matter."

"From where I'm sitting it does."

"Maybe you need to sit somewhere else." Steve shoves his still full plate away. "Thanks for breakfast."

**

"You're not making dinner, are you? Cause I'm pretty sure your job is to save the world, not give it heartburn and food poisoning."

Bucky winces and hisses softly when he hears Sam's teasing. Steve laughs softly, and Bucky wonders if Sam can hear the tension in it.

"Don't worry. Your stomach is safe."

"Whew. Nat told me about the dinner you made for her. I wasn't even there, and I had nightmares for a week."

"Nat maybe exaggerated."

"I stole a bite of that chili you were making that one day. She wasn't exaggerating."

Steve glances at Bucky as he walks into the room. "Okay, well, I'll leave you two alone to save the world, one government form in triplicate at a time." He takes the pan off the stove and pours whatever it was down the sink. "Have fun."

**

Bucky comes home three weeks later, tired from a mission that lasted two weeks too long. He's been shot at, nearly blown up, flown through the air and dropped two stories by Sam, and kicked out of a building. He's tired and sore and wants food, a shower, and bed. 

He walks in and immediately recoils. The house smells like spoiled milk and rotted meat. Within a heartbeat he goes on the defensive, inching his way into the kitchen, safety already off on his gun as he holds it in front of him. 

He whips into the kitchen and takes cover behind the counter. The smell is nearly overpowering in here, and he has to fight the urge to gag. No one fires on him, and he works his way around the room. There's food on the counters, the fridge door is open and cracked down the center, and the cupboard shelves are bare and doors are half off their hinges.

He inches up slowly until he's standing and, on top of the oven, are the charred remains of three different pans. The kitchen table is still in one piece though it's been shoved hard into the wall. It's littered with broken plates and bowls, the shattered remains of their open cupboards. 

Against his better judgement, he puts his gun away and crosses the living room to head down the hallway to the bedrooms. Steve is sitting on the bed, head hanging down. He's shaking and thinner than Bucky's seen him since before the serum. His body is bent forward like his shoulders are too much weight, and his bangs cover his face.Bucky can see the rough patches of a new beard. 

Bucky sighs. "When did you last eat?" Steve shrugs, but it looks like it costs him. "Drink?"

It earns him another shrug and Bucky nods, turning back toward the kitchen. Bucky can't stand the smell of himself coupled with the stench of the house. He starts cleaning methodically like he's on automatic pilot. He goes through five trash bags that he carries out to the garbage cans before he scrubs everything down. 

There's still a lingering smell in the air, so he opens all the kitchen windows before going back to his room to shower. He pauses in Steve's door and he hasn't moved an inch. Bucky closes his eyes for a moment then heads into his own room so he can strip out of his uniform and shower.

He scrubs the smell of the mission and the kitchen off of himself, changing into a pair of sweats and one of Steve's old T-shirts before padding barefoot into Steve's room. He sits on the floor in front of Steve with his legs crossed, tilting his head a little so he can see Steve's face. It's worn and thin as well. His eyes are closed and his lashes look even darker against his pale skin. 

"Hey."

Steve swallows, his throat clicking with it, then licks his lips. He presses them tight together and doesn't say anything. 

"What's all this about, Steve? The cooking. The destruction of our kitchen." He reaches up and traces the tips of his fingers along Steve's jaw. Steve shudders, swaying forward slightly. "I need you to talk to me."

He swallows again and clears his throat. His lips open like he's going to say something, but instead all that comes out is a breath, heavy enough that it feels like the weight of the world is behind it. 

"Steve. Hey." Bucky frames Steve's face with both hands and forces his head up so Bucky can see him more clearly. Something inside him twists as tears slip down Steve's cheeks, spike his lashes. "Steve."

"She." It's all he manages for a long while, the rasp of his voice as rough as gravel. "She used to eat peanut butter sandwiches."

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes deeply. The most Steve's said about Natasha is that she sacrificed herself to get the soul stone. He'd heard more of the story from other people, but nothing from Steve, even though they were the ones who'd stayed at the compound, the ones who kept it going. 

They were each other's person. The only one they had left.

"Sometimes." Steve exhales again, his shoulders sagging further, and Bucky's certain that, if he weren't holding Steve's face, his head would be hanging down between his knees. "Sometimes we'd take the wrappers off the cans of food and each open one. I'd have to eat what she opened, she'd have to eat whatever I did. After a while, we stopped."

"Why?" Bucky asks softly.

"I don't know. We both stop pretending, I guess."

"Pretending?"

"That anything was normal?" He sits back, pulling free of Bucky's grip. He's even thinner than Bucky thought. Looking more tired than Bucky thought was possible. He's beginning to think Steve didn't sleep the entire time he was gone. "That anything was okay. That we were okay."

Bucky watches him and when Steven opens his eyes, Bucky feels like he's been punched. Steve's eyes are swimming with tears, the blue of them seems fractured. "Oh, Steve."

"I got so sick of the smell of peanut butter." His laugh is a broken thing. "I tried to cook for her. I wanted to do something. Something other than fucking peanut butter. Something she deserved. She deserved so much." 

He chokes on the last word, and more tears spill. "And I couldn't even give her that. Fucking super soldier and I couldn't take save anybody. Not you or Sam or half the fucking world. And I couldn't save the one person I had left."

Bucky starts to speak but then stops when Steve's chest heaves with silent sobs. Instead he grabs Steve's hands tightly, and he's not sure whose grip is tighter. 

"I wanted… I thought maybe I could… I thought maybe learning to cook might… I thought it might make her laugh. Say there was hope for me yet."

Bucky closes his eyes, his own chest tight with emotion.

"Maybe." His breath shudders out of him. "Maybe I could. I don't know. Maybe, if I could make you something, you'd know. You'd know I'd do anything to save you. Because I couldn't save her." 

"Steve." Bucky gets on his knees and moves between Steve's spread legs, wrapping his arms around him, his palm against the back of Steve's head, holding it to his shoulder. 

"I keep thinking that I wish it was him. I wish. I wish he'd fallen. Jumped. That I'd wish death on him if it meant I could have her back." His voice is muffled, but his laugh is high-pitched and painful, like a knife in Bucky's heart. "I couldn't even cook for her."

Bucky tugs Steve closer until he slips down on his knees in front of Bucky. His body sags into his and Bucky tightens his grip. "Hey. Hey." He turns his head slightly so the words are pressed against Steve's hair. "We'll teach each other to cook, okay? We'll both learn together. And when we come home, when Sam and I come home, you can feed us, okay? A home-cooked meal."

Steve nods slightly, his body jerking against a rough swallow. 

"And we'll set a place for her every time."

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a happy thing for Meg's birthday, and this is what it became, so she got a MUCH different version called "Recipe for Disaster". I couldn't let this one go though.


End file.
